


If there's a rocket, tie me to it

by myrmidryad



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Future, Angst, Future Fic, Heartbreak, M/M, Robots, but that's canon so you guys should see it coming, everyone's stuck in a bunker, should be fun, spoilers - everybody dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 11:40:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrmidryad/pseuds/myrmidryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the distant future, Enjolras and the Amis (and Grantaire, who was drunk) volunteer for General Lamarque's resistance army, donning techtonic battle suits to fight the Coalition that governs the New Paris Collective. They didn't expect this to involve so much sitting around in a tiny bunker, waiting to be killed.</p><p> </p><p>Grantaire and Bahorel found the wine tap and drank it almost dry that very night, with the help of the rest of the new crew of Barricade Base 43. Somewhere around their eighth round, a golden-haired god walked – no, <i>strode</i> – into the room and Grantaire’s memories flickered, wavered, and caught like fire when the man began to talk. </p><p>“That.” He grabbed Bahorel’s shoulder and gestured to the man. “Who is that?” </p><p>“Enjolras,” Bahorel replied, raising his cup in a toast. “Our fearless leader.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	If there's a rocket, tie me to it

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Snow Patrol's [song of the same name](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lqtQlyFnIig). I wrote this fic while listening to A Hundred Million Suns on repeat, basically, because urgh, those lyrics.

The laws of techtonic battle: 

First: that all fighting will occur at a minimum of five hundred miles from human civilisation. 

Second: that all fighting will be undertaken with the aid of techtonic battle suits and remotely operated techtonic armours. 

Third: that all attacks will be aimed at the opponent and not at innocent civilians. 

Fourth: That all non-conscripted combatants enter the field at their own risk. No compensation or recognition will necessarily be given in regard to their actions. 

 

 

“Enjolras.” 

Enjolras looked up at Combeferre’s nudge, in the middle of strapping himself into the seat of the pod they would be riding to the front line. “What is it?” 

“Do you know who that is?” Combeferre jerked his head at Bahorel. No, Enjolras saw when he looked a little closer – there was another man slumped in the seat next to Bahorel. He looked unconscious, a head of thick black curls lolling against his chest, face hidden from view. 

He frowned. “No. Do you?” 

“Bahorel!” Combeferre called. “Who’s your friend?” 

Bahorel pulled a face. “They shoved him on me just before I got on. Said we needed an even number.” 

There were twelve seats in each pod shuttle. Enjolras exchanged a look with Combeferre and shrugged. Unconscious or not, the man was still a volunteer, and all of them were on the same side here. The floor beneath his boots hummed as the engines started, and Enjolras felt a thrill in his chest. Finally, after months of waiting, the battle was about to begin. 

 

 

“I’m sorry, what?” The man called Feuilly frowned at him, and Grantaire sighed. 

“I don’t believe this will make any difference.” 

“Then why’re you here?” 

Good question. He’d woken up in a Barricade base (so called because they had been built as barricades when there was still the edge of a city to defend out here) with no memory of the trip out and only a vague memory of stumbling up to the volunteer booth back in Paris (technically New Paris Collective, but no one called it that except the politicians). 

“I was drunk,” he said truthfully, and one of the other men snorted. 

“Brilliant. I’m Bahorel.” 

“I take it I have you to thank for dragging my carcass aboard your pod?” Grantaire smirked and shook his hand (man had a firm grip – Grantaire liked him already). 

Bahorel grinned. “I’d say you owe me a drink.” 

Maybe _that’s_ why he’d signed up – volunteers at the front line got free booze sent from home. Grantaire nodded. “Fair. Where does one acquire the liquid of the gods upon this fair vessel?” 

Feuilly clapped him on the back. “You talk like Jehan. Common room’s down the hall to your left. Can’t miss it.” 

Grantaire and Bahorel found the wine tap and drank it almost dry that very night, with the help of the rest of the new crew of Barricade Base 43. Somewhere around their eighth round, a golden-haired god walked – no, _strode_ – into the room and Grantaire’s memories flickered, wavered, and caught like fire when the man began to talk. 

“That.” He grabbed Bahorel’s shoulder and gestured to the man. “Who is that?” 

“Enjolras,” Bahorel replied, raising his cup in a toast. “Our fearless leader.” 

Enjolras cast them a glance that electrified Grantaire from his toes to his fingertips, and then continued to talk to one of the others. Grantaire drained his cup and leaned back to refill it, caught in the memory of seeing this man, _Enjolras_ , climb up onto a toppled statue of some monument or another back in Paris and shout passionate words of rebellion and revolt, stirring the hearts of the crowd gathered below until they burst with righteous fury, inciting them to riot. 

He had been drunk, but he remembered following this man to the volunteer booth and signing away his own life in a foolish attempt to keep the god in his sights. A scrawled, single _R_ , and now he was here. 

He drank until his cup was empty, then refilled and drank some more. 

 

 

He’d thought they’d brought two strays along with them – the drunkard and the slim, silent man who had stayed in the background until now. But apparently they were acquainted, if only through Marius, and the man wasn’t a man at all, but actually a young woman called Éponine. 

Two women in the bunker now – Éponine and Musichetta, who had come along with Joly and Bossuet. Enjolras treated them the same as the others and they gave him no trouble. It was the actual stranger he was having problems with. 

It was an unofficial rule of Lamarque’s campaign against the Coalition that each group of volunteers had one member in it who would report to him. Not a spy so much as a sceptic; someone who could be relied on to give honest reports untainted by optimism. Their sceptic was clearly the drunk who had been foisted on Bahorel before they’d left. 

“Do you report to Lamarque?” Enjolras asked him the day after they arrived. The man groaned, not lifting his head from the table in the common room that he seemed to have claimed as his – it was the closest to the wine tap. 

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those idiots who hangs on his every word. He’s a dick.” 

Enjolras narrowed his eyes. “So you are reporting to him.” 

“Apparently it’s my job now. Frankly, my dear Enjolras, I couldn’t care less as long as he keeps the tap stocked.” 

“You know my name?” 

The man laughed, finally lifting his head. “You don’t know mine?” He grinned when Enjolras didn’t answer. “You don’t. It’s fine – it means I have the pleasure of introducing myself and shaking your hand, like so.” He took Enjolras’ hand and shook it, firmly. “I am Grantaire, or R, if you prefer. Delighted to make your acquaintance.” 

“Are you always like this?” Enjolras frowned. Grantaire’s old-fashioned way of speaking put him on edge – he wasn’t sure if he was being mocked or not. Grantaire released his hand and laughed. 

“Only while the wine flows.” 

“What has the general said?” 

Grantaire wrinkled his nose. “Nothing you don’t already know – the Coalition Guard is rallying, the people are being oppressed, etcetera, etcetera. We should probably be ready to go at any moment though. Apparently these things can move quite quickly once the ball starts rolling.” 

“You’ll keep me updated?” 

“Whatever you like.” 

“Thank you.” Enjolras walked away with a slight frown. Grantaire wasn’t what he had expected. 

 

 

There were eleven others in the base with him. Enjolras, of course, the golden leader with the fiery tongue, and his right hand man, Combeferre, who was always ready with a smile and a calming word whenever Enjolras got too worked up. The textiles worker, Feuilly, the brawler Bahorel, and the dreamer Marius. Joly was a medical student, and his lovers were a law student (Bossuet) and a barmaid (Musichetta). Jean Prouvaire, who liked to be called Jehan, was prone to poetry and bursts of extraordinary vivacity between bouts of shyness. Courfeyrac was the friendliest. Éponine was a loner. 

The base had twelve small cabins for their bedrooms, a common room, a command centre, a tiny emergency medical bay, and a techtonic practice and training chamber. There were docking stations for ten techtonic battle suits as well, but they hadn’t been used yet. That was the whole of Barricade Base 43. 

Grantaire sat next to Éponine on the second night and gave her a cup of wine. “Why are you here?” She sighed and looked across the room – at Marius, he realised. “For him? Does he know?” 

“I don’t think he’s noticed I’m even here.” She took a sip from the cup and looked at the floor. “He’s got a sweetheart back home.” 

“Cosette.” 

“Yes.” 

Of course. Marius couldn’t shut up about her. Just like Enjolras couldn’t shut up about liberty for the people. He snorted and tapped the edge of his cup to Éponine’s. “People like us are doomed to mourn from a distance, I guess. Marius is in love with his enchanting city girl, Enjolras is in love with the ideals of freedom.” 

Éponine smiled faintly and they drank together, trying to drown their sorrows. “Pity mine know how to swim,” Éponine muttered when he told her that. 

 

 

No one was surprised when Enjolras turned out to be a natural in the techtonic suit simulations. Cocooned in the bulky frame, he managed to make it move easily, cutting down the fabricated enemies in his path with deceptive ease. A few of the others quickly adapted to the suits as well – Combeferre and Musichetta were particularly good – but most of them struggled. Enjolras tried to reign in his impatience – they needed to be proficient in operating the techtons by the end of the week, when their base would be put on the deployment roster. Then they would be eligible to be sent out to engage encroaching Co-Guard soldiers, titan suits clashing in the wasteland with tiny pilots cradled at their centres. By the time they were deployed, they needed to be at least competent in physical combat situations – guns of any kind were illegal in techtonic battles in case a rocket strayed from the field and found an innocent bystander five hundred miles out, so everything was done with the suit itself and the plasma blade attachments. 

Combeferre put a hand on his arm when Bossuet got his jammed again, the left leg lifted behind him and the right arm stuck at the shoulder joint. “Let him figure it out on his own,” Combeferre muttered. Enjolras scowled and shifted. He couldn’t understand why the others were finding it so difficult. It wasn’t exactly hard to sit in a frame, lock the limb attachments into place, and _move_. But he stayed quiet as Joly helped Bossuet to untangle himself and start the program again. 

When his shoulder locked in exactly the same place for the second time, Enjolras was about to speak when another voice cut through the chamber. “No, no, you’re doing it wrong.” 

Everyone stared as Grantaire vaulted over the railing for the observation deck and into the simulation stage, going up behind Bossuet and taking his arm, moving it so that the shoulder joint unlocked. Grantaire hadn’t even had a go in the suit frame yet. 

“Look,” he said, standing beside Bossuet and imitating his pose. “Forget the program for a second. Make your movements smoother, make them flow. You keep doing this.” He lifted his arm as if he was about to punch someone and jerked it forward. “It needs to be slower. You can still get the momentum without the choppy movement. Like this.” He repeated the movement, rolling his shoulder as he lifted his arm and pushing his fist through the air in one movement. “Try it.” 

Bossuet nodded and copied the motion. The joint didn’t stick, and he grinned. “Have you used these before?” 

Grantaire laughed. “Is that a serious question?” 

“You have a go!” Courfeyrac called from the deck. “Go on!” 

Bossuet agreed enthusiastically and climbed out of the frame. Grantaire hesitated, glancing up to look at Enjolras for some reason before clambering in. He didn’t initiate a simulation program as soon as he was locked in, but flexed each of his joints in turn, getting used to the resistance of the frame before engaging in a practice battle. 

Enjolras watched in silence, rapidly revising his opinion of Grantaire as he did so. There surely had to be more to the man than irritating cynicism and a too-deep love of alcohol if he could move like this, certain and graceful without a single hitch. Enjolras pictured him in the field itself, slicing through the regimented lines of the Co-Guard with his fluid strikes and evasions. He moved as if the frame wasn’t even there, with almost as much speed. 

“See?” he huffed when the program finished, his suit simulation victorious. “Easy.” 

The others broke into spontaneous applause, and Grantaire bowed as he stepped out of the suit, grinning widely. “Where did you learn to do that?” Courfeyrac jumped down to clap his shoulder. 

Grantaire shrugged. “Nowhere. Dancing probably helped though.” 

“You dance?” 

“A bit.” 

“We should dance tonight,” Jehan declared, leaning over the railing and exchanging a smile with Courfeyrac. “It’s obviously good for practice. What do you think, Enjolras?” 

He nodded. “It’s a good idea.” It made sense– he and Combeferre were both fairly good dancers, and it was certainly feasible that Musichetta was as well. 

Grantaire looked up at him with dark eyes and Enjolras wished, for a fleeting moment, that he wasn’t as good as he was so that he would know whether Grantaire was as good a teacher as he appeared to be. 

 

 

They won their first skirmish. Grantaire reported it to Lamarque in the command centre, still buzzing from the adrenaline of the fight. 

“How’s morale?” the general asked. 

Grantaire laughed, an ugly sound in the empty room – everyone else was celebrating in the common room. “High as a fucking kite.” 

“Wonderful. 43 is obviously more prepared than I thought.” 

“No,” Grantaire said sharply, too sober for politeness, “we weren’t prepared. We were just lucky.” 

“Nevertheless –” 

“They shouldn’t be here,” Grantaire snapped. “They should be at home, back in Paris, not climbing into techton suits and battling it out with trained guard members.” 

Lamarque scowled at him over the cam-link. “You watch your tone. You’re a subordinate.” 

“So discipline me.” 

“I can easily punish you from here, volunteer. I can ration your food supplies and limit your privileges without even calling anyone. It’ll take the press of a few keys, kid, and you’ll be eating beans for three weeks straight with no wine to take your mind off the boredom.” Grantaire was silent, and Lamarque smiled. “Better. Now, call in – what was the leader called again?” 

“Enjolras.” Grantaire stood up jerkily. “I’ll just get him for you, shall I?” 

Lamarque rolled his eyes. “Sceptics. I am so sick of sceptics and their sarcasm. Yeah, send him through.” 

“At your command.” Grantaire couldn’t resist a mocking bow before he strode out, vibrating with anger. He was definitely too sober for this. “General Dickhead wants a word,” he told Enjolras as he entered, heading straight for the wine tap. “Try and play down the success, yeah?” 

Enjolras glared at him, but left quickly, obviously not wanting to keep Lamarque waiting. 

“Why play down the success?” Marius asked, flushed with victory. 

Grantaire poured himself a cup of wine and scowled. “Because if he thinks we’re any good he’ll send us right into the shitstorm, and I’d rather not get killed, thanks.” 

“You must’ve known the risks when you signed up.” Joly frowned, tangled in a heap with Musichetta and Bossuet. 

“I was drunk.” 

“Then leave.” Jehan challenged. 

Grantaire sighed and downed the contents of his cup in three seconds flat, literally pouring it down his throat. “It’s too late now,” he muttered, wiping his mouth and leaning down to refill his cup. “Far too late.” 

 

 

Éponine was the first to die. 

Enjolras was on the field grappling with an enemy soldier when it happened. He only noticed because someone shouted, “No!” through the com-link. Combeferre, it sounded like. He pushed it from his mind and engaged his fight fore-shield, wrenching it from the other techton’s grip and using it to shove him away. 

Techtonic suits were meant to minimise risk to the pilot. The gigantic battle armour engaged in the physical combat and took the force of it, and the pilot directed its movements from within one of four command chambers. There were four to present more targets to the opponent. There was no way of telling from the outside which chamber the suit was being operated from. The idea behind the system was that the suit could be neutralised, but the pilot could still survive, able to be retrieved either as a prisoner or by rescue. 

Unfortunately, the Co-Guard didn’t seem very interested in taking prisoners. 

They retreated as the 43 crew rallied around Éponine’s fallen suit, and Enjolras got there just as Combeferre and Marius completed the procedure of joining their suits to hers, docking tunnels linking to her suit’s ravaged front. Her heart was still beating, according to Enjolras’ monitor, and he waited in silence with the others as Marius and Combeferre entered her suit to find her. 

“Where are you?” Combeferre asked over the com-link, clearly trying to stay calm. “Éponine? Which chamber?” 

“Bottom right,” she breathed over the line. There was a wet cough, and Enjolras turned the cameras of his suit to focus on the bottom right of her suit’s chest. It was a mess – an enemy sabre had torn right through the layers of thick shielding. The charge on the blade must have been running white-hot – the gaping hole had clearly been a killing strike. “Marius?” 

“I’m here,” he gasped. 

“We’re in,” Combeferre told the rest of them, the tone of his voice appalled. “Oh, Éponine –” 

“I’m alright,” she said faintly. “Marius, Marius…” 

“I’ve got you, I’m here.” 

“Then I’m alright.” She sighed, and Combeferre’s breath shuddered on the line. 

“Is there anything you can do?” Jehan asked. 

“I could come in,” Joly offered. 

“No.” Combeferre told them quietly. The sound of Marius crying was in all of their ears. “Her chest is…there’s nothing we could do now.” 

“It doesn’t hurt,” Éponine said softly. “Don’t cry, Marius, I’m alright, I can’t feel anything, it’s fine…” 

“Éponine –” 

“Just stay here with me?” 

“Of course.” Marius choked. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you.” 

“Then I’ll be fine…” 

“You’ll be alright, Ponine, you’ll be alright…” 

Éponine’s heartbeat was weak on Enjolras’ monitor, and he knew everyone else saw the moment at the same time as he did when the line went flat. Marius sobbed in their ears, and when Combeferre spoke his voice shook. 

“Marius, we need to go. They could…they could come back any moment.” 

“We can’t leave her here!” 

“Can you carry her out?” Enjolras asked, keeping his voice clipped though his throat was tight. 

“We can put her in one of my free chambers,” Marius said. 

“Then do it. Hurry, Combeferre’s right – they could come back.” 

The jubilant mood they had been carrying with them since the first victory had vanished as though it had never been. They wrapped Éponine’s body in a sheet and programmed the pod to take it back to Paris for appropriate disposal. Enjolras hated the part of himself that mourned the loss of a good sheet and sat by himself in the command centre that night, nursing a cup of the foul wine they were given. 

Grantaire, of all people, came in and sat with him. They sat in silence for several long minutes before Enjolras broke. “Did you want something? Come to gloat at the loss of our innocence?” 

The look Grantaire gave him could only be described as tired. “You really think I would do that?” 

Enjolras looked away, ashamed, and angry that Grantaire was here when he just wanted to be alone. “Then why are you here?” The sceptic among the faithful; a cat among doves. 

“I was drunk.” 

“Why do you _stay?_ ” 

Grantaire’s voice was quiet when he replied. “They’re my friends too, you know.” 

Enjolras had nothing he could say to that, and they passed the night in silence. 

 

 

Grantaire had never realised how fast death could be sometimes. One second, Bossuet and Musichetta’s suits were there, moving together across the rocky ground, and then there was a burst of intense light. When it faded, their suits were in pieces and their lifelines were flat on the monitor. 

“No.” Joly’s voice over the link. Grantaire started moving towards him as fast as he could and saw Feuilly and Courfeyrac do the same. “No. No, no, nonononononono –” He was running towards the site, and Courfeyrac intercepted him first. At the clash of their suits, Joly screamed. “NO! _No_ , Bossuet, Chetta, no, let me go, _let me go_ , I need to help them, _LET ME GO!_ ” 

“Shut him down!” Enjolras shouted. Grantaire caught one of Joly’s suit’s arms and prayed he wouldn’t light up the plasma blades. He and Courfeyrac held Joly’s suit still as Feuilly linked his suit up. Bahorel and Enjolras covered them, Enjolras barking orders over the line. “Fall back! Marius, Combeferre, get back here, hurry!” 

Joly was sobbing and screaming in their ears, struggling desperately. The movements of his suit ceased when Feuilly reached him and literally dragged him from the controls. “They’re dead, Joly! They’re dead!” 

“No, they can’t be, they can’t, let me go, please, they can’t, they can’t, please, _please_ …” 

Grantaire squeezed his eyes shut, glad that no one else could see him as his face crumpled and he began to cry as quietly as he could. Joly had dissolved into wordless cries of pain as Feuilly pulled him out of his suit and into his own. The empty suit would have to be carried back to the base. They would have to hurry. 

“Disconnected.” Feuilly’s voice was steady. “You two should get moving.” 

“Bahorel, help them lift it,” Enjolras ordered. “Marius, where the hell are you?” 

“We’re on our way!” Marius and Combeferre had gone ahead to scout the land out and Jehan was back in the base – at least one person had to be inside at all times. 

“Watch your step,” Enjolras told them. “I think Bossuet and Musichetta triggered a mine. Be _careful_. Feuilly, get moving, I’ll cover you.” 

Grantaire, Courfeyrac, and Bahorel shouldered the immense weight of Joly’s suit and started to move, counting to synchronise their steps. There was no way to cut or limit the com-line, so they could hear Joly’s crying all the way back to the base. Grantaire bit his tongue to try and stifle his own tears – however strong his grief, it had to be nothing compared to what Joly was feeling right now. To lose both lovers at the same time…it had been so _fast_ … 

Combeferre had to sedate Joly to get him to sleep, and Grantaire drank the tap dry again, feeling the pain of loss like a blade in his chest no matter how many times he knocked the cup back. 

 

 

Fighting in a techtonic suit was both indescribably terrifying and intoxicatingly exhilarating. Enjolras countered a blow from a Co-Guard soldier and drove his plasma blade into the thigh of their suit. They tried to avoid going for the command chambers if they could help it. According to Grantaire, Lamarque was both impressed and exasperated by their high morals. 

Grantaire was every bit as glorious in the field as he had been in the simulation chamber. Enjolras watched him closer now, and saw the easy grace in his movements even when he was intoxicated. He almost never tripped or stumbled, but controlled his feet and gesturing arms almost absently, apparently completely aware of his body at all times. Enjolras was trying not to look, but it was difficult when Grantaire kept drawing his attention on purpose, giving him wicked grins when they played cards and loud retorts when he spoke of the good they were doing by standing up for Paris. His cynicism still had the power to irritate him, but mostly it just disappointed him. He didn’t let it show, but the other man’s relentless pessimism was disheartening. 

Bahorel howled gleefully over the com-link, drowning out their voices as he cut down a Co-Guard soldier and snapping Enjolras back to the present. They had grown used to his curses and shouts over the line, and Enjolras had given up trying to get him to quiet down. He was their best fighter by far, his lack of restraint an advantage against the ruthlessness of the Co-Guard. Enjolras spun in place, charging his plasma blade as he curved it up and around and down into the hip-joint of his opponent, almost slicing the leg clean off. He knocked off an attempted rebuttal with a jerk of his shoulder and swung his blade down again. This time the joint did sever, and he hissed triumphantly as the soldier’s suit toppled and fell. A downed suit was a dead suit. 

He stamped hard on its chest to make sure it stayed down and glanced around the battlefield. “Combeferre, left!” he shouted. Combeferre, just having shoved an enemy suit away, spun to his left with his shield up and countered a strike from a Co-Guard soldier. 

The others shouted their own warnings and victories over the line. “Everybody duck _now!_ ” Jehan bellowed. Enjolras stooped down without looking and flinched as the arm of a Co-Guard suit flew over him and smashed into the dirt beyond. 

“Enjolras, stay down, don’t move!” Grantaire yelled. “Stay right where you are.” 

“What’re you –” Enjolras started, then wheezed as something heavy pressed down on his suit (and his frame) for a second before vanishing. When he looked right he saw that Grantaire had vaulted over him and thrown himself into an enemy suit looking to take advantage of Enjolras’ distraction. 

“ _Yes_ , Grantaire!” Bahorel whooped, his suit’s blades burning hot. A Co-Guard soldier charged at him from his left and Enjolras and someone else shouted a warning. Bahorel turned a fraction too slowly and the enemy blade sliced deep into the chest of his suit. “Fuck!” Bahorel snarled wordlessly, grunting as he manoeuvred his suit, trying to get himself off the blade. Enjolras sprinted over to help, but his cameras went dark as a soldier tackled him from the side, cutting him down. 

“Bahorel!” he shouted, twisting under his attacker and trying to throw him off. “Someone – someone help him!” 

“I’m fine!” Bahorel insisted. The darkness disappeared as Enjolras shoved at the weight of the enemy suit and he saw Bahorel struggling with his attacker, suit shaking with the stress of the blows. “I’ve got him, I’ve got –” 

“No!” Enjolras screamed as Bahorel’s opponent shoved the plasma blade back into Bahorel’s suit’s chest and Bahorel was cut off, his lifeline immediately flat. 

“Bahorel!” Feuilly roared. “Bahorel!” 

Enjolras shouted in wordless fury, desperately grappling with his own assailant, who suddenly vanished, tackled to the ground by Marius. Enjolras rose instantly, running to Bahorel’s attacker and slamming both his blades into the enemy suit’s chest, driving it to the ground with the force. He tore the blades out and sliced through the suit’s armour twice until he saw the body of the pilot, a young woman with bright blonde hair, dead in the toxic air of the battlefield. 

When he turned, Grantaire’s suit was already kneeling over Bahorel’s, digging at its destroyed chest. “I have him,” he said, straightening with something tiny cradled in the three retractable fingers of his suit’s right hand, blades cold and uncharged so the body wouldn’t be damaged. 

“Is he –” Courfeyrac started. 

“He’s dead.” Grantaire confirmed, voice flat. “Can we retreat?” 

Enjolras wanted to scream. It was just a _body_ – it was worthless now, it wasn’t Bahorel anymore, there was no point at all in calling off the whole attack to protect a tiny lump of flesh. 

But at the same time, it was Bahorel’s body. Bahorel, who had been utterly alive right up until the moment he suddenly _wasn’t_. 

“Enjolras?” Combeferre’s voice, calm and collected. 

Enjolras drew on his strength and made the decision. “Grantaire, give the body to Marius. Marius, stay back, the rest of us press forward. Combeferre, cover me.” 

“Are you fucking _serious?_ ” Grantaire hissed. 

Enjolras wished there was a way to speak privately across the com-link. “I don’t have time for this,” he snarled. “Either give the body to Marius and fight or fall back. Feuilly, Jehan, pull in to me. Courfeyrac, to your left, drive them back. Grantaire, help him or fall back.” 

He was distantly aware of Grantaire giving Bahorel’s body to Marius before running to Courfeyrac’s aid. Enjolras threw himself into the fight with Combeferre at his side, weaving their attacks into a strategy as if he’d been doing it his whole life. At moments like this, it was all so easy to direct them like chess pieces. He could see the way each move would pan out, the way everything would happen, exactly how to drive the Co-Guard back. 

“Combeferre, with Jehan!” Absorb the blow aimed for his chest on his shoulder, ignore the pain, turn and thrust, cutting deep. “Grantaire, on your right!” Batter them back with his shield, deflect their strikes, elbow to the shoulder joint to knock them sideways so he could plunge his other hand deep into their back, extending his fingers and retracting his blades once it was inside to grab the innards and pull them out. “Aim for their feet, cut them off at the legs!” 

It was like dancing, just with more bruises. 

When they got back Grantaire punched the wall so hard he broke two of his fingers. Enjolras made a report of the whole battle for Lamarque, then locked himself in his bedroom and cried until he fell asleep. 

 

 

The tap was dry. 

Grantaire sat next to it and tried it over and over, but the situation didn’t change – the wine tap was dry. 

By the evening, he was twitching, and he’d sneaked into the command centre twice to check the status of the wine tap. They just weren’t getting any, like they had been cut off. If Lamarque was behind this, Grantaire was going to leave this stupid bunker in a techtonic suit, find Lamarque, and pop his head like a grape. 

He flinched when Jehan dropped into the chair next to him. Of course, the other man noticed and frowned. “Are you okay?” 

“Tap’s dry.” Grantaire said by way of explanation. His hands were trembling slightly, he noticed. When had that started? 

“How long’s it been dry?” 

“Since this morning.” Neither of them commented on the fact that Grantaire started, continued, and ended each day by imbibing copious quantites of alcohol. 

“Maybe you should talk to Joly or Combeferre.” 

“I don’t need a medic.” Grantaire snapped, nerves stretched and frayed to breaking point. “What I _need_ is some fucking _wine_.” 

Jehan left, and Grantaire tried the tap again, ready to cry. He needed this. Without it, everything was just too much. Everything hurt too much. 

Jehan returned with both medics and they persuaded him to leave the common room and spend the night in the med bay with Joly, who never slept in his room anymore, or went outside the bunker, or smiled. 

The first night was the hardest, but Grantaire survived it. When the others were deployed the next day, he stayed behind with Joly, who had to sedate him to keep him inside, explaining in a monotone that Grantaire was physically unfit for duty. Joly also fielded a call from Lamarque with a lengthy explanation of the kind of illnesses one could contract in a bunker environment to excuse Grantaire’s absence. 

The wine tap started producing wine again the day after, and Grantaire returned to his normal state of being. He drank until he could ignore the sad edges to his friends’ smiles, ignore their concealed pity, ignore Enjolras’ disappointment and disdain. 

He drank until he fell unconscious in the common room and threw up the contents of his stomach the morning after.   

 

 

Enjolras counted his friends. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Marius, Feuilly, Jehan, Joly, Grantaire. Over and over, checking their positions at all times. It was possible to do from the command centre, which was where he spent most of his time these days. He could see the dots on the screen and know they were there. 

Grantaire, Combeferre, Feuilly, and Marius in the common room. Joly in the med bay. Courfeyrac and Jehan in Jehan’s bedroom (at least they were happy). 

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. 

Only a month since they had arrived and already he felt like he was falling apart. He’d expected death and loss and pain, but not this agitation. Not this feeling of anxiety under his skin when someone moved into a corridor and out of his sight, their signal only reappearing again once they entered another room. A twitchiness he couldn’t repress. Unjustified nervousness when he couldn’t see them. 

Joly, Feuilly, Courfeyrac, Jehan, Grantaire, Marius, Combeferre. 

He tried to wean himself off the need by forcing himself to stay away from them, staying alone in the command centre rather than in the common room. (Jehan, Courfeyrac, Joly, Combeferre in the common room, Grantaire, Feuilly, Marius in the simulation chamber.) He made himself look away from the screen that showed which rooms were occupied, and by how many people. (One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.) He tried focusing on one person at a time when he was with them rather than checking the room every five seconds, counting heads and tallying up the numbers. 

Marius (one), Feuilly (two), Jehan (three), Joly (four), Combeferre (five) at the table playing cards. Grantaire (six) and Courfeyrac (seven) at the table by the wine tap. 

He was going mad. And he couldn’t stop. 

One, two, three, four, five, six… Six. Six? 

Enjolras gripped the edges of his chair and studied the screen again. Joly in the med bay, Grantaire and Marius in the common room, Feuilly in his bedroom, Jehan and Courfeyrac in Courfeyrac’s bedroom, Combeferre – 

No Combeferre. 

It was irrational. He was being ridiculous. Combeferre was in a corridor, between rooms. 

Enjolras forced himself to wait for a minute, the sixty seconds slicing into him like hair-thin blades, shredding his self-control until he was actually trembling with it. He counted them again (one, two, three, four, five, _six_ ) and then burst into motion, out of the command centre in two long strides. 

Combeferre was in the corridor that led to the docking bays when Enjolras found him. It was literally the last place he looked, and when he saw Combeferre standing in front of the thick floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a view of the docking stations he didn’t even think before going up to him and pulling him into a rough hug, throat tight with absurd relief. 

“Enjolras?” Combeferre was caught off guard, but hugged him back without hesitation. Enjolras squeezed tighter, ducking his head until his chin was on Combeferre’s shoulder blade, Combeferre’s hair against his neck, his scent filling Enjolras’ nose. “Not that I’m complaining,” Combeferre said after a moment, apparently perfectly content to remain in the embrace, “but is something the matter?” 

Enjolras closed his eyes and experienced a brief flash of intense panic before he broke and admitted it. “I couldn’t see you.” 

“See me?” 

“On the monitor. You disappeared.” 

“You knew I couldn’t leave the bunker without you seeing from there, don’t you?” 

“Yes.” 

They were silent for a long moment, neither breaking the hug. With Combeferre pressed against him, irrefutably safe and well, Enjolras was calming down. 

“Is this why you spend all your time in the command centre?” 

 _Yes_. “Among other things.” 

Combeferre heard the answer behind the reply and gave Enjolras a tight squeeze. He didn’t need to say anything else; he understood – no one else really _got_ Enjolras like Combeferre. No one else he knew had the ability to understand other people so well with so few clues. After another minute or so of just absorbing the sensation of Combeferre breathing – chest rising and falling steadily, breath warm on the back of Enjolras’ neck – Enjolras pulled away. “Thank you.” 

Combeferre sighed and put his hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “You’re going to go to the common room now. I’m going to get everyone else in there, and we’re all going to try and relax. You’ll calm down and stop twitching whenever it looks like someone might leave. Alright?” 

Enjolras attempted a smile. “Okay.” 

Combeferre sat with him that evening in the corner, making sure he could see everyone. Enjolras counted them again and again (Combeferre, Joly, Jehan, Courfeyrac, Grantaire, Marius, Feuilly), but less so as the night wore on and he got used to their positions in the room. 

It still wasn’t normal, but it was better. 

 

 

Grantaire was having his alcohol consumption forcibly limited. At first he had enjoyed avoiding it, disappointing them (Jehan and Marius were the main perpetrators), but he was getting better. Unfortunately, less alcohol meant more ghosts. 

He saw them everywhere, and spoke to them sometimes, hearing their voices as clearly in his head as he had once heard them with his ears. 

Bahorel sitting with a chair backwards between his legs, grin wide and sharp, gesturing enthusiastically with his hands to describe something or another, his cup of wine within easy reach. Spitting curses and insults at the Co-Guard even though he knew they couldn’t hear him. His voice when he sang a drinking song, loud and rough. 

Musichetta, her laugh over the com-line as she tripped up the Co-Guard soldiers. Coming up behind Joly when he was sitting at the table and leaning her arms on his shoulders, planting her chin on his head. Her long chestnut hair, her playful jibes, her way of inserting herself neatly between her boys, teasing them and everyone else, making faces behind Enjolras’ back to make them all snicker. 

Bossuet, relating another episode of his appalling luck with a self-deprecating grin, rolling his eyes at every hand he was dealt when they played cards, usually genuine but occasionally bluffing, suddenly pulling a rare win out of the bag and delighting everyone. Leaning against Joly whenever they were next to each other, always keeping an eye on him and Musichetta when they were in the room, his head swivelling to follow their movements. 

And Éponine. Glorious, lonely, heartbroken, beautiful Éponine, who knew more about Marius than he did himself. Her too-thin frame folding into small spaces and curling up on chairs, her unexpected ferocity and skill in the simulation chamber and on the field. Her dark hair tumbling in thick tangles over her shoulders, hiding her expression and her dancing eyes. The low huskiness of her voice, the upward curl to her lips, her amusing, cutting remarks. 

Grantaire saw them move like memories across his vision, and imagined them speaking to him. Musichetta asking why Enjolras never gave speeches anymore – she’d so loved to make fun of them. Bossuet telling him that Joly looked tired, he should get some sleep. Bahorel making amused, dirty comments whenever Courfeyrac and Jehan exchanged a smile or a kiss. And Éponine, Éponine wishing aloud for Marius’ safety, insisting that Grantaire look out for him, to be more open about his own feelings because nothing was worse than regret and wasted opportunities. 

Grantaire imagined that they discussed his feelings for Enjolras as he got ready for bed one night and couldn’t remember a thing they’d said in the morning, only that Éponine had been both sympathetic and resolute. 

Almost a month and a half they’d been here now, and the battles showed no sign of ending. Grantaire was under no illusions. He knew that they were going to die, written off as numbers in the records of history. No names, no tales of their lives. Just numbers. Not even individual numbers – figures floating bereft of identity in the great soup of ‘dozens’ and ‘scores’ and ‘hundreds’. Estimated zeroes on the end of one or two other digits. No one was going to remember them. No one cared now, that was for sure. There were no more volunteers. If there had been, their four lost friends would have been replaced, but there was no one else coming. They were on their own now, and they were going to die on their own later. 

Grantaire watched Enjolras with the too-sharp vision sobriety afforded and couldn’t bring himself to act on phantom-Éponine’s advice. It was better to keep some things to himself. He had no hope at all of Enjolras returning his feelings – Enjolras despised and disdained him by turns, he’d made that much clear – and it was less painful to watch from a distance than open himself up to rejection. He could continue like this until they died, he knew. 

(That didn’t stop him casting sidelong glances at Courfeyrac and Jehan’s easy intimacy, pangs of envy and longing making his chest hurt and his throat dry, every part of him aching for a drink.) 

 

 

They were out sweeping for mines, and Enjolras had been uncomfortable the moment they’d donned their suits. To cover the ground they needed to cover, they needed to split up, six techtons crawling slowly across the landscape at glacial pace, everyone tense and strung-out because they’d seen what triggering a mine would do. They wouldn’t even have time to scream. 

Enjolras was extremely glad that Joly had agreed with their unspoken decision to not let him into a suit again. At least one of them was safe. (Unless the Co-Guard launched a sneak attack on the base while they were gone which wouldn’t happen because they’d have to come through their line first and it was just illogical, so Enjolras needed to stop thinking about it.) Everyone else was stretched out too far away for him to even see with his suit’s cameras. 

It was more than he could stand. Dots on a screen weren’t enough when they were in the field. He needed to be able to see them. 

At least he could hear them. Courfeyrac was making sure no one stayed quiet for long, asking questions and keeping up the chatter so the line was never silent. Enjolras was pathetically grateful for the background noise, picking out individual voices and counting them over and over. 

Feuilly: “The old gods are just stories!” 

Combeferre: “With that logic, so is the old God.” 

Marius: “Hey, people still worship God.” 

Grantaire, with a snort: “No one with a brain.” 

Jehan, reproachful: “That’s just rude. You shouldn’t come down on anyone because of their beliefs.” 

“Unless their beliefs have a negative impact on those around them,” Enjolras interjected. Combeferre muttered an agreement. 

“Personally,” Jehan ignored him, “I’ve always preferred the old gods anyway. They’re much more interesting from a mythical perspective.” 

Joly, from back in the bunker: “Well that’s probably because there are more characters and therefore more scope for telling a good story.” 

Grantaire: “I’m with Jehan on this. If you ignore everything else and just focus on the stories and the myths, the old gods are much better. There’s more room for explaining away bad things as well – with a single God, he just keeps contradicting himself. If you have a whole pantheon, you can say that well, Hades went a bit nuts and nicked Persephone, so her mum’s all depressed and that’s why the crops are failing.” 

Courfeyrac: “I thought God’s foil was supposed to be the Devil?” 

Grantaire: “Yeah, the Devil, aka Lucifer the fallen angel whose fall might’ve been predestined if God is all-knowing, which means all the evil ultimately goes back to God. It’s a fucked up system!” 

Enjolras smiled. It was rare to hear Grantaire speak so passionately. “I didn’t realise you knew so much about old classics,” he said. 

Grantaire laughed. “Old Greek and Roman myths were free downloads when I was a kid, so I ate them up. I know entirely too much about defunct religions.” 

“See?” Courfeyrac said. “Even Grantaire’s got hidden depths.” 

Grantaire, mock-outraged: “What do you mean, ‘ _even_ Grantaire’?” 

Jehan, amused: “Yeah, _harsh_ , Courfeyrac.” 

Courfeyrac, grumbling: “I didn’t mean it like _that_.” 

Feuilly and Marius laughed, Enjolras with them, their chuckling suddenly cut off by Jehan’s shout of alarm. “Jehan?” Enjolras turned his cameras in the direction Jehan’s suit was according to his monitor. “Jehan! Report!” 

“I’m –” Jehan gasped and grunted. “Shit, I’m engaged, I’m engaged, I tripped a remote armour.” 

“Jehan!” Courfeyrac was panicking. Enjolras sent the signal for silence on the line. 

“What class is it?” 

“Can’t tell, it’s filthy, must’ve been here for weeks. _Fuck_ , it got my leg…I’m good, I’ve got it, engaging plas –” His voice was cut off by a grating metallic screech that made everyone shout, ignoring the order for silence. 

“Jehan!” They were all shouting his name when the screeching stopped, terrified. “Jehan!” 

A cough. “Here. I’m okay, I’m fine. It fell on me, but I’m fine.” 

Enjolras tried to slow down his breathing. Combeferre spoke, “Jehan, the readings for your suit…” 

“Yeah.” Jehan cleared his throat. “Oh. _Oh_. It must’ve…when it fell, its blades were still active. They’re lodged in the centre of the chest, pinning me down. It’s…oh. It’s a class eight.” 

Enjolras cursed mentally, Marius and Grantaire cursed out loud. Class eight remote-operated techtonic armours were designed to lie in wait for an enemy suit to stumble on them, then break into their suit and leech the battery life from them, charging themselves up to perform the same attack as many times as possible. 

“What’s your energy status?” Enjolras snapped. 

“Bad.” Jehan grunted. “Hang on, I’m trying something.” 

“What’re you trying?” Courfeyrac asked nervously. “Jehan?” 

“One second…okay, got it.” Jehan huffed. “I had about twenty percent left, and I used some of it to pull out its power core. It’s dead. Unfortunately, it’s still pinning me down, and my suit’s too weak to move it.” He sucked in a breath that shook slightly. “I’m dead in the water.” 

“We’ll come and get you,” Courfeyrac promised. “How far –” He was cut off by a harsh beeping from Jehan’s line. “What the fuck is that?” 

“Hang on!” Jehan was quiet for a moment, and then the beeping ceased. 

“Jehan.” Enjolras’ voice was clipped. “What was that?” 

Silence. 

“Jehan!” Courfeyrac’s suit appeared on the horizon of Enjolras’ vision, several miles away. 

“That was the rupture alarm,” Jehan said quietly. Everyone was silent. The air in the wasteland of the battlefield was poisonous. A ruptured techtonic suit exposing its pilot to the air was practically a death sentence. “It…the techton must’ve nicked the air chambers when he stabbed me. And my mask is cracked from the attack. It’s useless now.” 

“No.” Courfeyrac’s suit continued to move, and Enjolras set a course to intercept it. Combeferre was following Courfeyrac, trying to catch up. “No, no, you’ll be fine. We’ll come and get you.” 

“Joly?” Jehan’s voice was small. “I’m sending you my suit’s status report. How long do I have?” 

“No, Jehan –” 

“Courfeyrac, shh.” Jehan took a deep breath (Enjolras tried not to think about the toxins he was drawing into his lungs). “Joly?” 

“If you remain stationary, without unnecessary moving…assuming you’ll be talking…at best, fifty-five minutes.” 

Someone whimpered over the line. Enjolras thought it might’ve been Courfeyrac, but wasn’t sure. 

“At best,” Jehan repeated. “Realistically?” 

Joly hesitated. “Thirty-five to forty. You’ll fall unconscious three to five minutes before your body expires.” 

“Like falling asleep,” Jehan said. “That’s easy enough. I fall asleep almost every night. It’ll be fine.” 

“No!” Courfeyrac hissed. “No, don’t you dare, don’t _give up_ just like that, you can’t!” 

“My suit’s too far away,” Jehan said gently. Enjolras checked his monitor. If he moved now from his position and kept his speed high, he would reach Jehan in almost half an hour. But by then it would already be far too late. “Last I saw you were over fifty miles out. I’m going to die – there’s no point coming for me now. Even if you reach me, it’ll be too late.” 

“I don’t care!” Courfeyrac insisted. His suit was getting closer, already moving at top speed. Combeferre sent Enjolras a private message. 

 _I’m going to go with him. I don’t think we should stop him._  

“It’s okay,” Jehan told them. “I don’t mind. Don’t waste your energy coming for me, Courfeyrac, there’s no point.” 

“Jehan –” 

“Joly?” Jehan cut him off. 

“Yes?” 

“Will it hurt?” 

Enjolras replied to Combeferre. 

 _I’m coming with you._  

Logic be damned. Stopping Courfeyrac now would mean losing him forever, and no one deserved to die alone, least of all Jehan. 

Joly took a deep breath before answering. “Not much. Your muscles will spasm a little. You’ll find breathing difficult. You’ll probably get a headache, possibly a stomach-ache. You might throw up. But in general it’ll be more uncomfortable than painful.” 

Jehan sighed. “That’s alright then. It’ll be fine. It’s better this way. At least this way I get to say goodbye to everyone, right? That’s good. It’s a good thing. It’ll be fine. I knew what I was signing up for, I knew the risks. I’m not scared.” 

So many different kinds of death, Enjolras thought as he matched Courfeyrac’s punishing pace across the landscape, desperately trying to reach Jehan before he died. Éponine’s wet coughs and death rattle. Bossuet and Musichetta’s sudden disappearance. Bahorel’s shout of pain and fury being cut off. And now this. 

Jehan’s voice grew fainter as they pushed on, his breathing more laboured. He asked them all to sing, and Grantaire led them in a bawdy drinking song that Jehan applauded weakly. He told them he didn’t regret volunteering. He asked them to keep fighting. He told them they were the best friends he’d ever had, and he didn’t regret a single moment. He insisted that he wasn’t afraid, that he’d be fine as long as he could hear their voices. He told them they could read the journal he’d been keeping in his room, and divide his clothes between them. They offered memories of his poetry, his kindness, his generosity. Feuilly recounted the time he’d spent his week’s money on buying flowers from a homeless vendor. Grantaire thanked him for helping him to drink less. Combeferre reminded them of his horrible taste in clothes, making Jehan laugh. 

“Hey,” he said, his breathing a rattle. “In case that afterlife stuff is true…you guys want to…give me messages for the others?” 

Marius spoke first, voice wet with tears. “Tell Éponine I’m sorry. Tell her I never meant for her to follow me here, and I never wanted her to get hurt.” 

“If you see her, tell her I miss her too,” Grantaire added quietly. “And Bahorel, tell him I stole his mattress, but I didn’t think he’d mind.” 

“Tell Bahorel I miss his snoring,” Feuilly sniffed. “I could always hear him through the wall at night, and I miss it.” 

“Tell Chetta and Bossuet…” Joly started, fell silent, and continued. “Tell them I’m not myself without them. Tell them I…I can’t _live_ without them. I hope I won’t have to for much longer. I never knew anything could hurt like this.” 

“I’ll tell them,” Jehan promised. “I’ll tell them we love them.” 

As if they were just in another room, around the corner, just out of sight. Enjolras suddenly understood the appeal of believing in heaven, because he didn’t think he could face losing more of his friends if there was no possibility of ever seeing them again. It hurt too much. 

Jehan coughed and wheezed. “How much longer, Joly? Before I fall asleep?” 

“Approximately seventeen minutes.” 

“Okay. Courfeyrac?” His voice was rough, a little scared now. “Courfeyrac?” 

“I’m here.” Courfeyrac sounded like he’d been crying. “I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Good, that’s good…it’s okay if you’re here…I love you.” 

Courfeyrac sobbed. “I love you too, I love you so much. Jehan, I love you, please don’t go, please…” 

“Not like I planned it,” Jehan breathed. “Sorry guys.” 

“Like we mind.” Feuilly’s voice was thick. “We love you too, you know.” 

Jehan’s suit came into view over the next ridge, pinned to the ground by a remotely operated techtonic armour almost as big. Courfeyrac made a desperate sound, and Combeferre and Enjolras hurried to keep up with him. “Careful!” Enjolras lunged forward to stop Courfeyrac connecting his suit to Jehan’s immediately. “Put your mask on first. We’re going with you and we’ll carry him back to your suit.” 

“What’s going on?” Jehan asked. 

“Did you really think we wouldn’t come for you?” Combeferre grunted, linking his suit to Courfeyrac’s. Enjolras linked his to Jehan’s and pulled his aching limbs from the frame, securing his gas-mask over his head. 

“But there’s no point,” Jehan whispered. 

There were narrow tunnels between each command chamber of a suit. Courfeyrac had linked up to the closest one to Jehan’s and was already on his way when Enjolras opened the channel between his suit and Jehan’s to follow him. 

“There’s every point!” They could all hear Courfeyrac’s boots on the metal floor as he ran. “I’m not leaving you.” 

There was a hiss as the door to Jehan’s command centre was opened, and Jehan gasped. “You’re here! You’re here, Courfeyrac –” Enjolras hauled himself into the tiny chamber a moment later to see Courfeyrac huddled over Jehan’s chair, hands fluttering over Jehan’s body. “I _was_ scared,” Jehan panted, tears streaking from the corners of his eyes. His skin was grey and beaded with sweat, veins standing out on his forehead. He looked like he was dying. “Courfeyrac, I was scared, I didn’t want to die alone, I’m so glad you came.” 

Courfeyrac couldn’t speak, he was crying so hard. Combeferre came in and touched Enjolras’ shoulder. “We need to move him,” he said quietly. “We can’t leave him here. Joly, any recommendations?” 

“Be gentle, and don’t jostle him too much. The clean air might prolong life for another five minutes or so, but that’s all.” 

“You’re here,” Jehan wept, touching Courfeyrac’s face with shaking fingers. “You’re really here.” 

They moved him into Courfeyrac’s suit and lay him on the floor where Courfeyrac could lie next to him, holding him close. They cried and kissed each other, Courfeyrac not caring at all about the risk of illness. Enjolras and Combeferre stood next to each other, pressed together from their shoulders to their thighs, and watched Jehan’s life slip away, taking Courfeyrac’s happiness with it. 

“I’ll miss you,” Jehan breathed. “I know that’s…stupid…since I’ll be…dead soon, but it’s true…” 

Courfeyrac pressed kiss after kiss to his face, his hair, his hands, and his mouth, over and over. “I love you,” he kept saying through his tears. “I love you, I love you, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, please don’t leave me.” 

Jehan sighed, eyelids fluttering. He was close. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t…want to leave you. I love you, I’ve always…always loved you.” 

“Jehan, please…” 

“I love you, everything about you.” Jehan was too weak to move now, so Courfeyrac took his hand and pressed it against his cheek. “Your…your smile, and the…colour of your eyes…you’re beautiful.” 

“Only with you,” Courfeyrac pressed their foreheads together, pulling Jehan as close against him as possible. 

“A thing of beauty,” Jehan breathed, “is a joy forever. I love you, so much…” 

“Jehan?” Courfeyrac’s sobs hitched when Jehan didn’t reply, eyes unmoving under grey lids. “Jehan, please don’t go, please, please, I can’t do this without you, please don’t leave me…Jehan, wake up! _Please!_ ” 

Combeferre turned away, shoulders shaking, but Enjolras forced himself to watch, his own cheeks cold and wet with tears, everyone listening to Courfeyrac’s heartbroken crying on the com-line, no longer bothering to stifle their own weeping. 

As they travelled back, Enjolras and Combeferre carrying Courfeyrac’s suit between them (he was in no fit state to pilot it, possibly never would be again), Marius spoke over the line, his voice shaky but strong. 

“A thing of beauty is a joy forever. Its loveliness increases: it will never pass into nothingness, but still will keep a bower quiet for us, and a sleep full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.” He hesitated, and Grantaire continued for him, his voice quiet. 

“Therefore on every morrow we are wreathing a flowery band to bind us to the earth, spite of despondence –” 

“Of the inhuman dearth.” Marius joined in again, and they kept going together. “Of noble natures, the gloomy days, of all the unhealthy and over-darkened ways made for our searching. Yes, in spite of all, some spirit of beauty moves away the pall from our dark spirits.” 

 

 

Jehan’s journal was copied and circulated among each of their mobile devices so they could read at their own pace, in their own time. He’d started it when they arrived in the bunker, and written at least once every three days. 

 

 _We’re in Barricade Base 43. It’s small, but with all of us together it’s a lot like the café back in Paris, except we don’t go to our separate apartments in the evening – we go to our separate bedrooms. They’re small, but practical. I’m between Marius and Courfeyrac, with the man who was unconscious on our way over opposite me. I think he’s called Grantaire._  

 

 _Enjolras spoke today about protecting the ones who can’t protect themselves back in Paris. He has such a way of talking that makes me feel as though we could do anything if we worked together. It’s like he sparks something in us whenever he speaks, a fire that will burn the old regime down. The Coalition simply isn’t working, and it’s ridiculous to pretend otherwise._

_A surprise! Grantaire can dance! And not only dance, but dance well! He took centre stage today when Bossuet couldn’t figure out how to move properly in the techton frame, and I suggested a dance in the evening. I’m glad everyone agreed, because we had such fun! Musichetta danced Combeferre almost literally under the table, and Grantaire showed us how to translate the dance moves into operating a techtonic suit. Bahorel tried to dance on the table, slipped on a puddle of wine, and nearly cracked his skull open. Joly was having fits! Courfeyrac was laughing so hard he couldn’t stand up, and I had to hold him. We danced, and I saw heaven._

_Marius tries not to let it show, but he misses his sweetheart desperately. So much so that he doesn’t see Éponine pining just as earnestly not two steps away. It’s horrible when this sort of thing happens. Marius told me today that Cosette’s father had taken her away from Paris, away from the Coalition. I can hardly blame him – I certainly wouldn’t want to raise a daughter in such a city – but Marius hasn’t got the money to follow her, so this is his last resort. If we succeed here, the balance of power will shift, and Cosette will be able to return to Paris to be with him. Marius fights for more than that, of course – Enjolras has lit a fire in his belly – but we all have our selfish reasons._

_Courfeyrac’s spending more time with me than ever now we have nowhere else to go. I join in when the others complain of our limited range, but secretly I’m glad to have the excuse to stay in and just talk. He told me about his brothers and sisters back in Paris. I’d like to meet them after this. His whole face crinkles when he smiles, and it’s beautiful. If I could draw, I’d try and sketch it, but I have no talent for art. His eyes crease at the corners and get all small, and his smile pushes his cheeks up. I’d like to touch the lines on his face when he smiles, run my fingers down them and make him laugh even more. Sometimes when he laughs at something someone else has said he’ll give me a quick look like we’re sharing a private joke, and it makes my heart expand like a balloon in my chest._

_We went out in the techtonic suits for the first time today. I couldn’t believe how exciting it is, and how powerful it made me feel. No wonder they don’t allow them within five hundred miles of civilisation – if everyone had one of these the Coalition would have been toppled years ago! They’re so much bigger than I’d expected, even though I knew the ratio of human to techton from the pictures I’ve seen. I feel so safe in the command centre, the frame a second skin on mine, the huge machine limbs extensions of my own body. The only difficult adjustment is the camera angles – the techtons don’t have heads, of course, because that would present far too easy a target, so the cameras are all over the chest and back instead, which is very odd. It makes judging aim a bit tricky – I keep forgetting my arms are above the viewpoint, so I keep hitting too high. I’m getting used to it though, and even Bossuet’s getting the hang of it now._

_I kissed Courfeyrac! And we won our first fight with the Co-Guard, but who cares? I kissed Courfeyrac! We were celebrating in the common room (even Enjolras had a cup of wine, so Grantaire was over the moon) and Feuilly was dancing with Éponine and Bahorel was dancing with Marius (he looked terrified, and I don’t blame him – Bahorel has two left feet, and they’re both very heavy when they fall on yours) and Courfeyrac grabbed my hand and started to dance with me. We were twirling in spirals, making each other dizzy, and when the song finished I pulled him against a wall so we wouldn’t fall over, and before I could lose my nerve I just leaned over and kissed him. I must have been blushing bright red, because he laughed and told me I was blooming, and then he kissed me back. I swear I could feel it in my toes. I’ve never been kissed like that before. I didn’t want the night to ever end._

_The Co-Guard killed Éponine today. Just typing that makes me want to break something. I’ve never hated anything as much as I hate the Coalition. I’ve never wanted to kill anything or anyone like I do now, and while a part of me is scared of that, the rest of me just wants to make them pay. She was innocent! They were aiming to kill Marius, actually kill him, not just neutralise his suit, and she pushed him out of the way and took the blade meant for him. She never had a chance. I hate them. I hate them so much I feel like I’m burning with it._

_Courfeyrac and I spent all day in bed. Every time I think I’ve reached ecstasy, he takes me to a new point. It’s not even all sex – it’s little things as well. He let me write lines of poetry on his back, and he always touches me when we’re with the others; a hand in mine, an arm around my shoulders, a hug. I never thought I’d love hugging so much, but I do when it’s him. He put lube on the list of extra supplies we’re allowed to ask for and laughed for about five minutes solid when I blushed bright red because Combeferre’s the one who checks those lists, and if he says anything about it, I swear I’ll die of embarrassment._

_Lube came. Any and all embarrassment would be totally worth it._

_Bossuet and Musichetta died today. I didn’t even see it because I was in the command centre here when it happened. But I saw their lifelines go flat and Joly started screaming and I can’t stop crying and I can’t believe this is happening._

_Joly’s dying. Not really, but it looks and feels like he is. We’ve all agreed kind of secretly without actually saying anything that he should stay in the bunker for a while. I don’t know whether it’s helping him or not. I don’t think he’s smiled since it happened. It’s like he’s existing because he knows we need him, but that’s all. Courfeyrac thinks that if he was allowed back out he’d go berserk and try to kill as many Co-Guard as possible on some sort of suicide quest. I don’t know what to think anymore. I can’t believe they’re gone. I keep expecting them to just be there in the common room, snuggled up on the bench, waiting for Joly. I can’t imagine how horrible this must be for him. I want to help him somehow, but I don’t know how._

_Random observations: Marius writes Cosette’s name with his finger on the table whenever he’s thinking to himself. Grantaire and Enjolras look at each other when the other isn’t looking. Combeferre spends more time in the simulation chamber than anyone else. Feuilly touches everything he’s near, just running his hands over the surface of each material. Bahorel spends an hour every morning running up and down the corridor by the docking bays. Joly sleeps in the med bay. Courfeyrac always tries to get everyone involved in the conversations when we talk, like he doesn’t want to leave anyone out. I wonder what they notice about me?_

_Bahorel’s dead. Grantaire’s fingers are broken. I feel like I’m full of ash, and Courfeyrac looks like he’s breaking._

_Courfeyrac asked me this evening whether I thought we could leave, all of us just walk out. I don’t know anymore. I still want to prove to the Co-Guard that they don’t own everyone, and that no matter what they do, they can’t squash out resistance without a fight, but it’s much scarier actually staying and fighting for it. I don’t think any of us could leave now. Joly desperately wants to die. Enjolras and Combeferre are totally committed to the cause. Feuilly and Courfeyrac are like me, I think – we’re still furious about how the Coalition treats Paris, and we can’t give up now. Grantaire could never leave us (especially not Enjolras). Marius is the only one I’m not sure about. He’s the only one of us who has a future whether we win or lose, I think, with his distant Cosette._

_Courfeyrac told me he loves me today. We talked for hours in my room and he said that enjoying ourselves isn’t a sin. I know that, but it’s good to hear him confirm it. We spend more time alone now, in case the others don’t see it the same way. I don’t know what I’d do without him. How do the others survive without someone to touch them and hold them when they get sad and scared? Maybe they’re just stronger than I am._

_Grantaire’s trying to drink himself to death. Maybe he wouldn’t if he saw how much we care – he has the lowest self-esteem of anyone I’ve met, and he’s better at concealing it than any actor. The tap’s been dry for a day and he’s in some sort of withdrawal already. We had to go out into the field without him, and Enjolras kept forgetting that he wasn’t there. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so tragic, because Grantaire doesn’t think that Enjolras even sees him, and in reality Enjolras relies on him almost more than Combeferre in the field. Grantaire’s our best fighter by far – it must be all that dancing. Courfeyrac thinks we should lock them in a room together until they figure it out._

_The bunker feels so empty. I can’t believe it hasn’t even been two months yet. I thought we would’ve won by now, but the Co-Guard have more money, and better suits. Ours are falling apart, and we’re running out of ways to repair them. Everything’s getting limited now, even the wine. At least Grantaire isn’t drinking as much these days. Enjolras won’t say so, but he’s pleased, and everyone can tell. Everyone except Grantaire, that is. Combeferre saved Marius’ life on the field yesterday, and he told him that he needed to survive to see Cosette again. Marius laughed and said he didn’t even know if her father approved. Feuilly called him old-fashioned and we all argued about the necessity for parental consent on the way back to the bunker (these journeys get shorter every time – the Co-Guard are getting closer and closer). I think my mother would love Courfeyrac. Though honestly, who wouldn’t love Courfeyrac? I’m so lucky I have him._

Grantaire slipped into the command centre. “Combeferre said you wanted me?” 

Enjolras got up. “Not me. Lamarque.” He jerked his head at the console and left without another word. Grantaire looked at the ground for a moment before going over to sit in the main chair. Of course Enjolras wouldn’t want to see him. He wished he hadn’t bothered to hurry. 

“How fares 43?” Lamarque asked brusquely. “Keep it quick, I need to check everyone else as well.” 

“43 fares badly.” Grantaire snapped. “Our suits are damaged, we’re low on wine, and morale is in a fucking pit. Anything else?” 

“Keep it civil, volunteer.” Lamarque scowled. 

Grantaire laughed, bitter. “Or what? We’re going to die anyway, aren’t we? What threats can you give that I’ll care about?” 

Lamarque shook his head. “I don’t have time for this. There are seven of you left, yes?” 

“Yes.” 

“We’re stretched too thin, and the Co-Guard are pressing forward. You should start organising a watch rota. Keep eyes on the horizon at all times.” 

“Sir, yes, sir,” Grantaire sneered. Lamarque scowled. 

“If you don’t like it, kid, leave. No one’s keeping you here. I mean, you’d be a coward for running, and a selfish rat for ignoring the pain of the people who need you to fight for them, but it’s your choice.” 

“Wow, sir,” Grantaire rose to his feet. “Can I have that put on a plaque?” 

“Transmission over,” Lamarque snapped, and the screen went dark. Grantaire laughed in the empty room. 

“Why don’t you leave?” 

Enjolras had come back in. Grantaire wondered how much he’d heard, then accepted that he didn’t care. He felt so tired these days. “Why do you keep asking?” 

Enjolras came closer. “I just don’t understand. You don’t believe in any of this – you could leave. You could save yourself.” 

“But I would only be saving _myself_.” Grantaire sighed and rubbed his forehead. “And I’m not worth much, as our beloved general just pointed out. You’re all I have. What’s the point of leaving now? I’d rather die with you than live without you.” 

Enjolras stopped a few steps away from him. “Have you read Jehan’s diary?” he asked after a moment. 

Grantaire nodded, looking away. He still couldn’t believe Jehan was dead. Another ghost in his mind, another gentle voice in his head. 

“Do you look at me when I’m not looking at you?” 

Grantaire whipped his head around to stare at Enjolras, who looked like he was meeting his gaze with difficulty. What was this? “I…look at you,” he said cautiously. “Yeah. Why?” 

“Because I look at you when I think you’re not looking too,” Enjolras said, an uncertain frown on his face. He took a step closer. “Listen, I’m just going to ask, because that seems like the simplest way to do this.” 

Grantaire was rooted to the spot. “Um. Okay?” 

Enjolras sighed and closed his eyes for a moment before looking at Grantaire again. “Do you like me? Because I like you, and apparently I’m not subtle, but you have self-esteem issues.” 

Grantaire couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even think. He just stared until Enjolras looked at the ground. “No, then,” he muttered, turning away. “Sorry, I just thought I’d check, just in ca–” 

Grantaire found his voice. “Wait! I –” he stopped when Enjolras looked at him again and stepped closer. “Is this a joke?” he managed to ask. 

Enjolras took his hand ( _took his hand_ Enjolras was _touching him_ Grantaire was going to start hyperventilating any second now) and came closer until there was only a foot between them. Grantaire’s eyes were about level with his nose, the couple of inches between them in height pronounced at this distance. Enjolras looked down at him and it felt like they were eye-to-eye when he said, “It isn’t a joke.” 

Grantaire swallowed, mouth slightly open, and Enjolras touched their foreheads together. Grantaire’s breathing sounded incredibly loud between them, and his eyes fluttered closed for a second as Enjolras kissed his cheekbone, the lightest press of lips to skin. Grantaire tried to keep his eyes open to drink in the sight, but it was difficult when Enjolras was kissing him like this, light touches on his cheeks, the corners of his eyes, the side of his nose, his jaw. Maddeningly gentle, almost chaste, and he could feel his heart pounding against his lungs, his breath almost coming in pants now. 

“You want this?” Enjolras whispered, sounding strangely hesitant. 

Grantaire breathed, “ _Yes_ ,” and reached out to slide his hands against Enjolras’ sides. Enjolras kissed him again – soft lips against his chin, then his temple, the skin under his ear. Grantaire turned his head blindly, chasing them, and Enjolras kissed the corner of his lips, his eyelid, his eyebrow. Grantaire fisted his hands in Enjolras’ shirt, about ready to whine with desperation. Enjolras’ nose slid against his, bumping gently, lips just brushing Grantaire’s for a second before they came together at last, and Grantaire did whine, an embarrassingly high sound of relief. 

Enjolras’ arms circled him, pulling their bodies together as their mouths opened, and heat flared in the pit of Grantaire’s stomach, desire with strength he’d never expected. Enjolras’ tongue was in his mouth, his own tongue sliding along it with shocking, delicious heat. He used his grip on Enjolras’ shirt to pull their hips against each other’s before lifting one hand and touching it tentatively to Enjolras’ hair. When Enjolras just kissed him harder, Grantaire slid his hand into the curls and let the world forget them for a moment, for longer, forever. 

When they stopped they were both breathing heavily. Enjolras’ hair was a mess from Grantaire’s hands, his cheeks slightly pink. Grantaire closed his eyes and held on tight. “If you do this,” he whispered, “if you give me this, I’ll never let go.” 

“Good.” Enjolras’ voice was rough, and he pressed a quick kiss to Grantaire’s cheek that sent sparks fizzing through Grantaire’s brain. “I don’t plan on letting you go either.” 

 

 

Enjolras read the transmission in silence before standing up and letting Combeferre read it. When his friend straightened, his face was pale, but his expression was resigned. “We need to tell the others.” 

Enjolras nodded, thinking of the way Grantaire had looked last night, sleeping in Enjolras’ bed. The dimmed light had created deep shadows on his skin, casting everything else in a dark gold glow, and Enjolras had stayed up and watched Grantaire breathing, never before so aware of time’s passing. He’d always been so thirsty for the future: it was strange to want to cling onto the present, hoarding the seconds and minutes and hours greedily, losing himself in the moment instead of constantly striving to see over the horizon. 

Everyone else was in the common room. Enjolras counted automatically as he came in – Marius, Grantaire, and Feuilly at the table, Joly and Courfeyrac (united in shared grief) in the corner, Combeferre at his side. All six of them safe and whole for the moment. 

“What’s the matter?” Feuilly asked, noticing their grave expressions. 

Enjolras took a deep breath. “General Lamarque is dead.” The room went still. “He was assassinated by Coalition agents last night. We think, Combeferre and I,” he glanced at Combeferre. “We think we’re the only ones left. None of the other bunkers are answering, and we’re right on the edge of the line now.” 

“You’re sure?” Marius’ voice was a little hoarse. 

Combeferre nodded. “We’re pretty certain.” 

Enjolras looked at the floor for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “The pod is still charged,” he said, lifting his gaze again. “If it left now, there’s a strong chance it would get back to Paris before it’s too late. If anyone wants to leave, this is the time to do it.” 

There was a long silence. Then Joly spoke. “I don’t want to see Paris again. I don’t want to live without Bossuet or Chetta.” 

“I can’t go back on my own,” Courfeyrac agreed quietly. 

“We’ll make them pay for this,” Marius declared, eyes narrow. “Take as many of them with us as we can.” 

“I still believe there are people in Paris worth fighting for,” Feuilly said softly. “And many more beyond the city as well. I knew what I was getting myself into.” 

“I haven’t left yet.” Grantaire lifted his cup and took a drink. “Might as well stick with it.” His eyes met Enjolras’ steadily, and Enjolras wanted to weep for the bravery of his friends. He didn’t want to think it had all been wasted, but he was terrified at the idea that it had been; that they had been killed for nothing. 

“I’ll take the watch,” Combeferre said, touching Enjolras’ shoulder before he left (one). Marius and Feuilly followed him (two, three), and Joly and Courfeyrac refilled their cups, looking a little lighter than usual (four, five). Grantaire got up and came over to him, holding his gaze for a moment before taking his hand and leading him out of the room (six). 

“If you don’t object,” he said quietly, “I’d like to spend the remaining hours of our free time with you.” 

Enjolras swallowed and tightened his grip on Grantaire’s hand, allowing him to lead him to one of their bedrooms. “I don’t object.” 

 

 

Grantaire trailed his hand from the back of Enjolras’ neck to the small of his back, marvelling at the smoothness of his skin. Enjolras hummed sleepily, so Grantaire grinned and did it again, seeing Enjolras smile against the pillow before cracking an eye open to look at Grantaire over his shoulder. “Hey.” 

“Hey,” Grantaire echoed, fingers lingering on Enjolras’ spine. He would never get used to seeing Enjolras like that (literally never, because they would probably be dead by tomorrow, which was quite upsetting if he stopped to think about it, so he didn’t); relaxed and gentle, the fire inside him a warm bed of coals instead of a raging inferno. 

“Come here?” Enjolras mumbled against the pillow. Grantaire smiled and lay down half on top of him, an arm reaching over to hold Enjolras’ hand, a leg hooked over Enjolras’ knee. Heavy and comfortable, Enjolras a reassuring bulk beside and beneath him. 

Enjolras turned his head so they were face to face and regarded Grantaire with a serious expression. Grantaire whispered, “Hey,” and Enjolras’ lips twitched. 

“Hey,” he whispered, and arched his neck to kiss Grantaire, pressing their lips together for a moment before he fell back. “You could still leave, you know. There’s still time.” 

Hurt panged through Grantaire, and he squeezed Enjolras’ hand reflexively, going tense. “Would you quit?” he said, harsher than he meant to. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Enjolras frowned. “I’m sorry. I just…you shouldn’t have to die…you shouldn’t have to stay just for me.” 

Grantaire laughed humourlessly and sat up, curling away from Enjolras. “ _Just_ for me, he says. As if you weren’t my whole life.” Enjolras sat up behind him, fingers brushing Grantaire’s shoulder. Despite himself, he leaned into the touch. 

“I just meant you shouldn’t feel obligated to sacrifice yourself for a cause you don’t believe in,” Enjolras murmured. 

Grantaire sighed, fisting his hand in the thin sheets. “It’s not _obligation_.” 

“Then what –” 

Grantaire looked over his shoulder at him and glared. “It wasn’t obligation when Éponine shoved Marius out of the way, was it? Or when Joly tried to run to Bossuet and Musichetta even though he could plainly see that they were dead? You went with Courfeyrac to Jehan when we all knew there wasn’t a chance of saving him. It’s not _obligation_.” 

Enjolras sat against the wall and pulled Grantaire between his legs until he was leaning back against Enjolras’ chest, skin to skin, Enjolras’ arms draped around his and his chin on Grantaire’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.” He kissed Grantaire’s jaw and hugged him tightly. “I’m sorry.” 

Grantaire sighed and tilted his head back, closing his eyes as Enjolras kissed his throat. “I love you, you know,” he said quietly. 

Enjolras’ hand found his chin and turned his head gently to face him. “I know,” he said, and kissed him, his hand sliding down to rest against Grantaire’s neck, his thumb against the curve of bone where jaw met ear. When they separated, foreheads pressed together, he said quietly, “I love you too.” 

Grantaire’s eyes flickered open briefly to look at him, and then he closed them again with a smile half delight, half grief. They wouldn’t live beyond the next night, he knew. He would never leave this bunker, never return with Enjolras to Paris. They would never go to dinner, never share an apartment, never learn each other’s bodies and habits slowly over the course of many years. They would never grow old together, or meet each other’s families. But Enjolras loved him. 

Enjolras _loved_ him. 

Grantaire leaned back into the embrace and brought his hands up to hold Enjolras’ arms in place, his smile growing. Enjolras loved him, and that was enough.

 

 

“They’re coming.” 

The voice made Enjolras jump, unused to the intercom. They’d never had reason to use it before, but Marius’ voice was loud in the room. “They’re coming now.” 

Grantaire twisted in his arms and kissed him fiercely, clinging to him for a few long seconds before breaking away with a gasp. “Let’s go meet our fates then.” 

Enjolras nodded and swung his legs out of the bed, keeping Grantaire in his sights as they dressed quickly and hurried to the command centre. They were the last to arrive, and when they got there, they could see the line of Co-Guard suits just beginning to appear on the horizon from the large windows. Enjolras took a deep breath, squeezed Grantaire’s hand once, then let it go and swallowed his fear. “If we suit up now, we can lay down some mines before they get here.” 

“Let’s do it.” Feuilly nodded. 

Joly came with them for the first time since Bossuet and Musichetta’s deaths, moving smoothly in his suit as though he’d never stopped. Enjolras gave orders for where to put the mines, and went around making holes and filling them in as decoys as fast as he could, strategies forming in his mind. “Don’t rush forward,” he ordered. “Hold back and let them come to us. Use the bunker as a shield, try not to engage directly unless you have to.” Their suits were in pathetic condition compared to the Co-Guard’s. Enjolras’ left hand wouldn’t extend its fingers, and the plasma blades wouldn’t charge past the halfway mark. His right knee joint kept sticking as well, no matter how carefully he moved. 

He counted the others constantly as he worked, keeping an eye on the advancing Co-Guard at the same time. Grantaire and Marius, laying mines (one, two). Combeferre and Feuilly trailing behind them, covering the tracks as best they could (three, four). Joly and Courfeyrac sidling out in front, too eager to take the first attack (five, six). 

“Joly, Courfeyrac, fall back,” he barked. “Don’t make yourselves targets.” 

Courfeyrac slowed down, but Joly sighed over the line. “I want to be a target.” 

Enjolras closed his eyes for a second. “Make them work for it, at least,” he said finally. “Don’t just hand them your head on a plate.” 

Joly sighed again, but fell back a little. Enjolras realised sadly that he couldn’t remember what Joly’s laugh sounded like anymore. 

The Co-Guard attacked in regimented lines. Enjolras bellowed orders through the line, directing the others to lead the enemy into the mines. Bright flashes of light flared up again and again, and Joly started crying, obviously remembering the way Bossuet and Musichetta had died. Enjolras was about to tell him to keep it together when he was engaged by an enemy suit. Feuilly tried to get to him, but the Co-Guard techton’s suit plunged a plasma blade into the chest of Joly’s armour and Joly’s lifeline died instantly. 

Enjolras flinched and began to move back towards the bunker. “Retreat, everyone back inside!” 

“I’ll cover you!” Courfeyrac shouted, holding the leg of a Co-Guard suit like a sword. “Go, go on!” 

Enjolras saw Combeferre hesitate, then turn and run. It was what Courfeyrac wanted, they knew. As they fled, one of the Co-Guard threw a piece of broken-off techtonic suit at Marius. The still-active plasma blades sank deep into his back and he fell to the ground. 

“Marius!” Grantaire changed course immediately, and Enjolras did the same, Feuilly on his heels. Marius didn’t answer their shouts, but his lifeline was still strong, so he was just unconscious, not dead. The blade hadn’t pierced his command centre, thankfully. 

Courfeyrac covered them, screaming insults and curses over the line, daring the Co-Guard soldiers to take him on even though they couldn’t hear him, leading them away from Marius’ downed suit. Enjolras reached it a second before Grantaire, and they each took an arm and began to drag. Feuilly lifted the legs of the suit and they started to run, Combeferre keeping the path clear ahead of them. 

Enjolras heard Courfeyrac engage with the Co-Guard soldiers, but forced himself to keep moving and concentrate on getting Marius to safety. Courfeyrac’s suit fell with a thud they felt through their own armour, and there was enough time for him to laugh for the first time since Jehan’s death before one of the Co-Guard soldiers drove a plasma blade into his command centre. 

Feuilly gave a harsh sob over the line, but they kept running. Combeferre was inside already when they reached the bunker, helping them dock Marius’ suit externally and going in to retrieve him as the rest of them abandoned their own techtons. 

Enjolras counted heads breathlessly. Grantaire (one), Feuilly (two), Combeferre emerging from Marius’ suit with Marius draped over his shoulder (three, four). Just four of them now. How had it come to this? 

“Boys!” 

The unfamiliar voice was enough to make them skitter back towards their suits with yells of surprise. If they’d had guns, they would have reached for them, but they were weaponless as a man approached them from the end of the corridor, long coat swirling around his ankles, white hair shining on his head. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Grantaire demanded, shaken. 

“My name is Fauchelevent. What are you still doing here? That pod is perfectly operational.” 

“Are you with the Coalition?” Enjolras stepped forward, trying to hide how startled he was. “Or the resistance?” 

“The resistance,” the man answered, looking behind him at Marius on the floor, guarded by Combeferre and Feuilly. “You should flee while they’re distracted.” 

Enjolras smiled, tired. “We could have left at any time, sir. We chose to stay.” 

“I see.” The man frowned, and Combeferre spoke. 

“Take Marius with you.” 

They all turned to stare at him, but Combeferre ignored them and looked only at the stranger. “He deserves the chance to see his Cosette again,” he said. 

The man raised his eyebrows. “And who is this Cosette to him?” 

“The love of his life,” Feuilly answered plainly. 

“She left Paris with her father when it became too dangerous to stay,” Combeferre said quickly. “Marius wanted to make it safe for her so she would return. He should live to see her again.” 

Fauchelevent wavered, looking at the rest of them. “No more of you will come?” 

“When we fall, others will rise to take our places,” Enjolras told him steadily. “Humankind cannot continue under this oppression. We cannot allow it to continue unchecked.” 

The white-haired man nodded sadly. “Very well. I will take him.” He stooped and lifted Marius onto his shoulders as though he weighed no more than a bag of air. “Good luck,” he said quietly before walking back up the corridor. The silence was broken by a juddering bang that made the whole bunker shake. 

“They’re here,” Feuilly said unnecessarily. 

“The command centre, come on.” Enjolras started to run. “It’s the only place with secure doors.” Their suits were ripped from their docking stations before they reached the end of the corridor and Combeferre skidded to a halt.

“Marius,” he gasped, “we need to hold them off long enough for Marius to get out.” 

“The tables in the common room,” Grantaire said, grabbing Combeferre’s arm and pulling him along. “We can block the way to the pods with those.” 

They ran, and Enjolras caught Grantaire’s hand as they flew through the narrow corridors, squeezing tight. “I’m going to the command centre,” he told them. “I can try and override the automatic doors from there.” 

“Good luck.” Feuilly panted. 

Enjolras exchanged a look with Combeferre. They knew they wouldn’t see each other again. Combeferre just nodded, and Enjolras slowed down as the corridor split to push Grantaire after the others. “They need you,” he said. 

Grantaire looked tortured, torn between helping Marius to escape and staying at Enjolras’ side. “Enjolras –” 

Enjolras darted forward and kissed him, fast and desperate. “Go,” he insisted, pushing Grantaire towards the common room and turning to run to the command centre in the same breath. Once there, he could see the dots of the Co-Guard soldiers invading the bunker through the docking bays. Only ten would be able to get in, but that would be more than enough. 

There were fire-doors that could be activated from the command centre in cases of emergency. Enjolras triggered the one that cut the docking bays off from the rest of the bunker and wondered how long it would take for the soldiers to break through it. Not long, he expected. With Coalition funding behind them, the soldiers would certainly have plasma guns at their disposal. 

There were still two pods parked, he saw, but one of them departed as he watched. Marius and his mysterious rescuer. Enjolras hoped he found Cosette and lived a long life with her. At least he had the chance to live at all. 

Was it selfish of him to give up a future with Grantaire in order to sacrifice his life for people he’d never met? To give up the chance of making Grantaire happy and instead die hundreds of miles from home for the sake of strangers? Was it selfish or selfless? 

Enjolras laughed at himself. It was too late to doubt now. He was going to die whether he believed in the cause or not. The three dots of Combeferre, Feuilly, and Grantaire left the common room, and the dots of the soldiers disappeared as they broke through the fire-door. Enjolras grabbed the main chair and hauled it from the room, hoping he would make it to their pathetic barricade in time to help. 

He didn’t. He heard the shouts as he ran, dragging the chair behind him, and he ducked as a plasma blast came around the corner. “There’s another one!” an unfamiliar voice shouted. “Around the corner!” 

“Advance!” 

Enjolras picked up the chair and hurled it at the first soldier to come round the corner before running back to the command centre and locking himself in. There was one other chair in there, and he picked it up as the door began to hiss at the edges, plasma cutting through the metal. He threw the chair at the first soldier who emerged and retreated against the command console. There was nowhere else to run, so he crossed his arms and stood tall, determined not to show any fear as the soldiers crowded into the room. 

Out of habit, he counted them. Ten uniformed soldiers. They hadn’t managed to take down a single one, but at least Marius had gotten away. The leader of the squad stepped forward, gun raised. “Do you surrender?” he asked loudly. 

Enjolras lifted his chin. “I do not. Shoot me.” 

The commander looked almost sad. “You’re so young.” 

“Old enough to know better than to accept corruption and oppression,” Enjolras said coldly. 

The commander sighed. “Would you like to be blindfolded?” 

“No.” Let them look into his eyes as they killed him. He wanted them to feel guilty, if their craven hearts were capable of it. 

“As you wish.” The commander raised his gun again and the other soldiers followed suit. Enjolras clenched his jaw and wondered fleetingly whether it would hurt when a voice shouted – 

“Wait!” 

The soldiers turned, and Enjolras’ heart leapt. Grantaire staggered into the room, bleeding from a wound on his forehead but otherwise unharmed. “Me too,” he said, walking steadily across the room to Enjolras’ side. Enjolras hadn’t realised how alone he’d felt before Grantaire had come and interrupted his execution. “Kill both of us together.” 

This was why Jehan had been so overwhelmed when Courfeyrac had come to him. It was so much better not to die alone, to die looking at the person he loved instead of at hard-faced soldiers. Enjolras found Grantaire’s hand and smiled at him, hoping Grantaire would see the gratitude in his eyes. He’d barely wound their fingers together when the soldiers fired. There was a brief moment of pain in his chest, a tug at his hand as Grantaire fell at his feet, and then nothing at all.

**Author's Note:**

> If you see any mistakes, please point them out! I wrote this in two days flat, so some might've slipped past me.
> 
> I urge you to listen to the album A Hundred Million Suns if you haven't already. Especially [If There's A Rocket Tie Me To It](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lqtQlyFnIig) and [The Lightning Strike (i) What If This Storm Ends?](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S0BDS0-ZwOw) Check out the lyrics at least, because they are _perfect_.
> 
> The poem Jehan, Marius, and Grantaire quote is A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever by John Keats.
> 
> I think this is the fic I originally had in mind when I started writing the cyberpunk au, but that ended up with a happy ending so this popped into my head to fill the quota of 'things Victor Hugo makes me sad about', and essay stress turned it into...well. If you're down here you know how it turned out, so. :/ Ah well. Comments appreciated! :D
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please consider [buying me a coffee!](https://ko-fi.com/A221HQ9) <3


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